


Suspension - a Sherlock Fanfic

by DearSherlock



Series: Sherlock - Adriane Woodford [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Gen, Het, Hurt/Comfort, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-06-27
Packaged: 2017-11-08 17:14:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/445566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DearSherlock/pseuds/DearSherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I am tying this in an identical pattern to that found on the murder victim. I apologise in advance for the total lack of skill on the part of the murderer, and the poor quality of the rope,” he says. He is waiting for me to extend my arms, but I hesitate. I am wary to hand over total control. I have too many bad memories of this kind of thing going horribly wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Flu

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock and never will, he belongs entirely to himself, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and those lovely people at the BBC, as do all the other Sherlock characters. I do not make any money from this. Adriane Woodford is a figment of my imagination and does not represent a real person, living or dead.
> 
> This fic is a sequel to Bait, which is a sequel to Control. It sits in the Adriane Woodford series.

 

It takes me a moment to register the text message alert when it goes off. My ears are buzzing and with a raging temperature my reactions aren’t what they should be. Besides, the drone of daytime TV is drowning out most of the other noise in the room.    
  
“221B if at all convenient. SH.” the message says.    
  
I groan. This is not going to work. It couldn’t have come at a worse time: I’ve been on the sofa for three days now and not showing many signs of improvement. He will have to wait.   
  
“I am really sorry but I’m ill,” I text back. Not sure what the response will be.    
  
To my surprise, there isn’t a response at all. I decide that that is probably better, and sink back into the duvet and pillows. Bargain Hunt is on and after three days I’ve got quite a liking for it. Phil sticks his head around the kitchen door.   
  
“Are you sure you just want tea? I can make you beans on toast if you want.”    
  
I shake my head, “Doh, just tea, dank you.”    
  
It was nice of him to visit on his lunch hour. Of all the guys at the College he has been the most persistently interested in me. He’s a nice bloke but not really my type – friendly, outgoing, straightforward and uncomplicated, all the things that my previous boyfriends have not been. But today I am not complaining of his attentions, especially not as he is just bringing me a steaming mug of tea.    
  
“Dank you berry buch,” I manage.    
  
He sits down at the foot end of the sofa, and asks, “Are you feeling any better?” He’s being really sweet, and so obviously wants me to be getting better that I say yes.    
  
I hadn’t heard the front door open, but suddenly Sherlock is striding into the living room. For a moment I wonder if I am hallucinating, but then I decide that my temperature isn’t quite that high. He stops in the middle of the room and takes stock of the situation, looking slightly taken aback.   
  
“You’re ill,” he says.   
  
I shake my head in hazy disbelief. Phil is just staring at him, his mouth open.    
  
“Yes, Sherlock, dat’s what I said.” I say. Then a fuzzy thought strikes me, “ _you thought I was fobbing you off._ ” He just gives me a brief awkward look.   
  
If I was feeling any better, I’d be enjoying seeing him on the back foot for a change. He doesn’t waver long though. With a dazzling smile, he extends his hand to Phil.    
  
“Hi, I’m Sherlock. How do you do?”   
  
Phil stands up, unsure, and shakes his hand. “Phil,” he says, and then, “Ehm, how did you get in?”   
  
“Oh, I’ve got a key,” Sherlock says, still smiling, waving a small silver object in front of his face.    
  
Phil just says, “Oh.” He looks at me, trying to get some explanation, but all I can say is, “you do?”  I wasn’t aware of it. I was going on the assumption that he’d picked the lock. It dawns on me that he had plenty of time to have a spare key cut while I was staying at  Baker Street for three days some months back.    
  
There’s an uneasy silence in the room for a minute. Phil rescues the situation beautifully by offering Sherlock tea.   
  
“Coffee please. Black, two sugars.”   
  
As soon as Phil has gone to the kitchen, Sherlock is onto me.  “Boyfriend?” he asks.   
  
“Doh,” I say.    
  
“But he could be,” Sherlock continues. “He _wants_ to be.”   
  
I’m not going to ask how he worked that out so quickly. Even I can tell.   
  
“He’s dot by type, Sherlock,” I say.    
  
“You mean to say he’s _nice_.” He sounds sarcastic now. “Adriane, ‘your type’ invariably ends up physically and sexually abusing you. Maybe you should consider changing types.”    
  
I am wondering if Phil can hear this conversation from the kitchen. I can’t judge anything with my stuffy head, but it seems to me that Sherlock is being louder than discretion should allow.    
  
“I dink you bight want to keep your voice down,” I say.    
  
Sherlock just smiles at me and raises an eyebrow. Now I know for sure he’s doing this on purpose. “Hodestly, I don’t deed you to be by _batchbaker_ ” I sniffle. It doesn’t quite come out the way I intended it.    
  
“Oh I don’t know, every little helps,” he says. He’s enjoying this, but I am just worried about what catastrophic thing he’s going to say next. “I mean, you’d have to put a stop to all the computer gaming, but it might work, as long as you like dogs. And cricket. I’d be wary of the overbearing mother though, not sure you’d want her as your mother-in-law. And if you still feel the need for pain you can come and see me. I’m sure I can think of something.”   
  
_ He’s serious _ , I think, _in his clinical mind that would work wonderfully_.   
  
Phil has reappeared in the kitchen doorway, coffee in hand. I have no doubt that he heard all of that. Sherlock turns to him.    
  
“Sorry about the coffee, I’ll see myself out.”    
  
As he opens the front door, he calls back, “Text me when you are better, Adriane.” And with that, he’s gone.   
  
Phil doesn’t say anything for a long time but just stands there, coffee still in hand. Then he looks at me and says, “Did that just happen?   
  
I nod.  He looks wary when he says, “Who was that? Your boyfriend?”   
  
I shake my head, “doh.” I really don’t want to have this discussion when I am feeling this awful.    
  
“But he’s got your key,” Phil carries on. This is going to be hard, I think. I decide to go with Sherlock’s approach of horrific honesty and see where it takes us. He’s done all the groundwork, after all.   
  
“He bust have pick-pocketed be when I was staying over a few months ago after I complained about him picking my locks,” I say.    
  
Phil stares at me.  “You are joking.”    
  
I just shake my head.   
  
“And he’s not your boyfriend.”   
  
I shake my head again.   
  
“But he wants to be?” Phil sounds uncertain now.   
  
“Oh God, doh,” I say.    
  
“But you want _him_ to be?”   
  
I think about this a moment. The reality of actually living with the man would be unthinkable; I remember having to escape after three days. I wonder how John copes. “Doh, actually,” I say. I wonder if I sound as surprised as I think.   
  
Phil is quiet again for a while. In the end, he drinks the coffee himself. I can see he is struggling not to ask many more awkward questions.    
  
“Listen,” I say, “when I’b better I will cook you dinner and I will explain. There’s some stuff you deed to know about be.” 


	2. Flu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I am tying this in an identical pattern to that found on the murder victim. I apologise in advance for the total lack of skill on the part of the murderer, and the poor quality of the rope,” he says. He is waiting for me to extend my arms, but I hesitate. I am wary to hand over total control. I have too many bad memories of this kind of thing going horribly wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Sherlock and never will, he belongs entirely to himself, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and those lovely people at the BBC, as do all the other Sherlock characters. I do not make any money from this. Adriane Woodford is a figment of my imagination and does not represent a real person, living or dead.
> 
> This fic is a sequel to Control and Bait. It sits in the Adriane Woodford series.

I get better, but it takes a week. When I feel up to it I text Sherlock. The response is immediate.   
  
“You took your time. SH.”   
  
I decide to stand my ground, and text back.  “I am no use to you half ill.” 

Again, the response takes seconds to arrive. “Let me be the judge of that.  Baker Street , one hour. SH”

It is mid-afternoon when I knock on the door of 221B  Baker Street . To my surprise, Sherlock opens the door himself.  “Is Mrs Hudson not in?” I ask.   
  
“Everybody’s out,” he says, walking up the stairs. I’m not sure how I feel about that. I am sure of one thing, and that is that without John’s moderating presence I am much more vulnerable. I resolve not to let my nerves show. I may be here for something simple, after all.   
  
“Right,” he says as soon as we get in the flat and he has closed the door. “Enough time wasted. We are looking at a murder case. The body was found suspended by the wrists from the ceiling in the suspect’s house. We know that it was hanging for roughly six hours, but currently the case hinges on how and when the victim died. She wasn’t strangled or damaged in any other way, and it wasn’t a heart attack or stroke. The markings on the wrists are ambiguous as to how long she had been dead since she was hung up, and there is woefully little literature on the subject. Naturally I have done the experiment on a dead specimen at Bart’s, but I am unable to draw any conclusions until I have data from a live subject, which is why you are here. Meanwhile, the police are getting impatient.”    
  
_ Clear and concise, _ I think, but I say, “Six hours?”    
  
“Hence no tea.”    
  
_ He wasn’t just being rude, then _ , I think. He is still looking at me, evaluating my reactions, probably wondering if I will try to bail out.   
  
“Any more questions?”   
  
More than anything I am worried about the effect of cutting off the circulation to my hands for that length of time.  “What if my hands start turning black?”   
  
“Obviously they have _not_ turned black on the murder victim, or the case would be clear-cut. We will not have to let it get to that point.”   
  
It makes me wonder, for a moment, if that level of harm would be acceptable in the name of science. But then I remember that he did promise John _no permanent damage_ , albeit begrudgingly. I just hope he remembers it as well.   
  
Sherlock seems happy that this concludes negotiations.  “Take off your coat and shoes, and make sure you visit the toilet. Oh, and take your watch off, and your rings.”   
  
_ It’s a good thing I didn’t have any prior engagements for tonight _ , I think.    
  
He has already headed into the kitchen to collect some things. I try to gather my thoughts as I go to the bathroom. He hasn’t even asked me if I’m OK with this, he is just going on the assumption that he can do whatever he wants. Unfortunately I have to admit that he is right, because the completely entitled manner in which he acts works straight on the core of my submissive nature, and I find it quite impossible to say no.   
  
When I get back from the bathroom he has a length of rope ready. “I am tying this in an identical pattern to that found on the murder victim. I apologise in advance for the total lack of skill on the part of the murderer, and the poor quality of the rope,” he says.    
  
He is waiting for me to extend my arms, but I hesitate. I am wary to hand over total control. I have too many bad memories of this kind of thing going horribly wrong. Sherlock gives me a questioning gaze. “Problem?”   
  
I just say, “Bad past experiences.”   
  
Instead of saying anything, he just moves over and coolly takes both my arms, quickly knotting the rope in several places around my wrists. “I am not one of your homicidal boyfriends, Adriane,” he says. “How’s Phil?”    
  
He checks the knots and makes sure my arms are secure. I find it hard to take no notice of his hands on my skin. “Shell shocked,” I say. As a matter of fact, I haven’t seen much of him since that afternoon, although he has phoned me a couple of times to see how I was. “He’s still waiting for me to explain my life to him.”    
  
“I wish you luck with that,” Sherlock says, deftly throwing the end of the rope over a hook in the ceiling that I hadn’t noticed before. I wonder if he does this kind of thing regularly. There is an elegant certainty to his movements which I find mesmerising, and I find myself just staring at him. At this moment, Phil couldn’t be less relevant.   
  
He stands me underneath the hook, and pulls the rope so my arms lift until my whole body is stretched upwards and I am standing on the tips of my toes. I am not quite able to support my whole weight on my feet, but at least I can take some of it off my wrists. Sherlock moves in front of me and ties the end of the rope back onto the ropes on my wrists, which means he is nearly standing against me. He is so close I can feel his body heat, I can smell him, and all I can think is how much I want him to touch me. Being completely powerless to do anything doesn’t help.  I make a conscious effort to slow down my breathing and look away, and hope he hasn’t noticed.    
  
He steps back and looks at me. I find it hard to meet his eyes.   
  
“I need you to get into the mindset of the victim, Adriane. _Aroused_ is not the feeling that springs to mind. She would have been scared for her life, and trying to get free. If you could focus on that, please.”   
  
_ So he did notice _ . I guess I was daft to expect anything else. But to him it’s an inconvenience, a distraction from the job in hand, irrelevant at best, annoying at worst. I try to think terrified and it isn’t too hard to imagine, having been in similar situations myself. I give a struggle against the ropes, but the bonds on my wrists are tight and they cut into my skin when I move. It is obvious to me that the situation for the murder victim would have been hopeless from the outset. If she was still alive when she was strung up, no amount of struggling would have helped her. I give up and try to stand as still as possible.   
  
Sherlock sighs audibly. He sounds annoyed when he says, “Adriane, you are not even trying. I very much doubt she would have given up so quickly.”   
  
“Sherlock,” I say, “there would have been no point for her. There is no getting out of these. All she would have done is cut herself.”   
  
He moves in close to me again and looks at me. He is outwardly calm, but I can sense his impatience.  “The problem is that you are assuming she was in a rational state of mind. I can assure you that she was not. She was about to die, and she knew it. In her desperation she would have done anything to get free.”   
  
He studies me a moment, thinking. Then he looks around the room, muttering, “Incentive.” He does a little twirl while he quickly surveys the objects in the room, then finishes in front of me again, clearly just having hit on an idea. “Ah.”    
  
He disappears into his bedroom. I am feeling increasingly apprehensive.   
  
When he comes back into the room, he looks pleased with himself. He has a small metal instrument in his hand that I don’t recognise. “There was this case, some years ago. BDSM party gone badly wrong. I picked up a few bits, thought they might come in handy one day. Know what it is?”    
  
He shows me the thing. It looks like a dressmaker’s marking wheel, but the spikes are longer and more widely spaced. It looks shiny, and very sharp. I shake my head. Sherlock gives me an odd look.   
  
“I don’t think much to your choice in boyfriends if none of them were ever creative enough to acquire one of these,” he says. “It’s a Wartenberg wheel. Standard BDSM kit, originally designed by a medical doctor to test nerve function, these days more commonly used to safely inflict pain.”   
  
He runs the wheel across his hand, then shows me his skin.  “If used correctly, it doesn’t break the skin, or even leave a mark. But the good thing for me is…”  He runs it very gently over the inside of my upper arm. I gasp, the pain is intense.   
  
“… _your body doesn’t know that_.”   
  
He puts the instrument down and calmly unbuttons my shirt. Then he goes round the back and pulls it all the way up to my neck, clipping it in place with something I can’t see. He comes round in front of me again and picks up the wheel. I feel vulnerable and exposed, and not a little apprehensive, but I try not to show it.    
  
“Now then,” he says, “As you said, there is no point in struggling because you cannot get free. And I am not actually _hurting_ you with this, in the strictest sense of the word, so really you don’t need to. Consider this an exercise in self control.”   
  
I cannot ignore the glint in his eye. He is rather enjoying this. He also knows full well that self control is not my strongest point. I resolve to try my hardest to just stand still and ignore the pain. I have plenty of reason to – every time I move the ropes around my wrists cut into my skin, and it is getting very painful.   
  
I don’t I have much time to think, however, as he is now behind me, running the wheel very slowly from my shoulders down my back. It is as if I am being used as a pin cushion. I manage to hold still, concentrating on my breathing. He goes over the same stretch again, and it is worse. I try to arch my back away from the thing, but I haven’t got much space to manoeuvre. Again on the same stretch, and it is agony now. Much as I don’t want to give into this, my body has a mind of its own and I find myself trying to struggle away.   
  
“Adriane, that is the least sensitive part of your body. What happens if I go here –“ he suddenly has the thing across my lower belly. I manage to suppress a scream and instinctively try to double up, getting no result other than the ropes cutting into my wrists.    
  
“Or here,”    
  
He is moving the wheel up along my side and getting very close to my armpit. It is excruciating. I have to get away from the thing, and I try to move sideways, to no great effect. He moves in front of me again.   
  
“Or here, even.”    
  
Now I stand still, because the spikes of the wheel are on my jugular. I daren’t move, every instinct telling me to not even breathe.    
  
“Interesting,” he says, studying me. “You know it is not actually doing anything to you."   
  
“Try it on yourself sometime,” I manage.    
  
He raises an eyebrow. “I have, of course. It is not that hard to rationalise the sensation.”   
  
That may be true in Sherlock’s case, although I personally doubt it, but in any case it is very clear it does not apply to me. He takes the wheel off my throat. “Now, you know I prefer you not to scream. It’s so undignified.”   
  
He begins to move around me, taking the wheel with him, tracing it all over my body, working in slow and steady circles. I cannot help it, I struggle. The pain in my wrists is getting worse every time I move, but it is impossible to ignore the spikes of the wheel as it is moving about. It is agonising and exhausting and Sherlock is not showing any signs of letting up. I can feel the ropes cut through the skin on my wrists now, and it is becoming hard to distinguish the source of the pain I am feeling. The ache in my arms and legs and the increasing cramp in my feet are blending together with the pain from my wrists and the ever-moving agony from the wheel. I am struggling to keep quiet and my breathing is all over the place. I am aching for this to stop. He carries on.   
  
It is too close for comfort, and I can’t suppress the memory of a different day, a different room, and a different man with much more harmful intent. Suddenly I feel trapped, and way out of my comfort zone. The need to get away is overwhelming and I feel the wave of panic surge up only just before it hits me. In a few moments my world shrinks to nothing as I lose it, blind panic overriding everything.   
  
_ I have to get out _ is the only thought left in my mind. Suddenly the pain is irrelevant as I put my full weight on my arms in a desperate attempt to get free of the ropes. I can feel Sherlock still in front of me and I kick out, anything to get away from the pain, but he is quick and my leg just hits thin air. Once again I slam down on the ropes, hoping that they might break or that I can dislodge the hook, but to no avail. All I get is a new wave of pain as the ropes cut into my wrists more deeply.  
  
I am shouting now,  “Stop it, Sherlock, let me go, get away, stop it, stop it.” Somewhere in the furthest recesses of my mind a word presents itself, long forgotten and rarely used, but designed for such occasions. An old safe word. I clutch onto it and just shout, “Red, Sherlock, FUCKING RED. Red.” I don’t even know if he is familiar with it. I’m not taking any chances and keep pulling on the ropes, hoping against my better judgement that I can get a hand free.    
  
Suddenly, I am lifted bodily into the air and end up standing on something higher. My arms come down and my first impulse is to hit out. Sherlock is behind me, and his block is quick and efficient. He moves to the side of me and pushes my arms down with one hand, until the ropes tighten. He has one leg either side of me and his other hand around my waist. It is something in between restraint and a hug, but in any case I can’t move very much.   
  
“Adriane, come back here.” His voice is calm, and very close, and I can feel myself calm down a little. I stop struggling. The world is coming back into focus and I can hear my own breathing, too rapid. “Slow down,” he says.    
  
I make an effort to take a deep breath. It takes more than one try. When I have some control over my breathing I look around me. We are standing on the coffee table, which Sherlock must have dragged halfway across the room while I was panicking. He lets go of me, and steps back, still standing on the table. He gives me an evaluating look.   
  
“Well, that was spectacular. Are you all right?”   
  
I shake my head and wave my arms at him. “Untie me.”   
  
“No.”   
  
I look at him in complete disbelief. The panic hasn’t quite gone yet, I can still feel it threatening to overwhelm me again.    
  
“Sherlock, please, I need to get out. Now. Still red.” My breath is speeding up again, and I am in a mind to just let it go.   
  
He is still just looking at me. “No. Calm down.”   
  
I try, but it is hard. All I want is out. But it’s clear that nothing is going to happen until I get a grip on myself, so I close my eyes and focus on calming down. It takes a while, but eventually I manage to find a calm space in my head. I take another deep breath and open my eyes again. He hasn't moved.  
  
Sherlock lifts his hand to show that there is nothing in it. Beautiful hands, I find it impossible not to notice. I nod to acknowledge the gesture.   
  
“It was a cut-throat razor,” he says, “about two years ago. He got you there,” he touches my neck, “and there,” the other side.  “After that, he threatened to cut your wrists and make it look like suicide. He had a go but stopped short of doing any real damage. You patched yourself up as best you could with plasters, at a guess, and didn’t get any medical help.”   
   
“That one,” he touches another scar on my neck, “was made by a different artist, with a serrated instrument, probably a kitchen knife, about a year ago. I don’t think he intended to do as much damage as he did, and I believe he stopped when he saw the amount of blood he generated. Again you didn’t visit a doctor, probably just wore a scarf for a week or so, and it scarred badly. Am I right?”   
  
I nod, panic gone now but replaced with tears. He’s spot on, and I once again wonder how he sees this stuff, and I realise that he must have seen and understood all of this ages ago, since he can’t even see the scars on my wrists at the moment. Then I wonder what else there is that he has picked up and just filed for future reference.    
  
His fingers move to the small scar that remains after my arranged abduction three months ago.  “As for that one, we both know where that came from, and I have made my apologies.”    
  
He is quiet for a moment.   
  
“The point I am making is, Adriane, I didn’t do any of that. I wouldn’t. I derive no great pleasure from hurting you. I need data, and you are kind enough to provide me with a means to that end. But you need to let all that other stuff go, and trust me.”   
  
He makes it sounds so easy, but I know all too well that it isn’t. I nod though, I can try. God knows I want to.   
  
“Now,” he says, “I am going to say amber, because I know you can do this. You are going to step down from the table and we are continuing the experiment. I am putting this away since we are done with it.”   
  
He has taken the Wartenberg wheel out of his pocket, showing it to me. He steps down from the coffee table and puts it away in a cabinet. Then he gets back up on the table, buttons my shirt up for me, and cleans up my face with a rapidly produced handkerchief. It makes me smile, he didn’t need to do that. Then he steps off the table and lifts me down. He is surprisingly strong for his light build.     
  
The pain in my wrists doubles as I touch the floor and I have to stretch to take as much of the weight off as possible.    
  
“Stay as still as you can, concentrate on your breathing, and if there are any problems you tell me _before_ you panic,” Sherlock says. He looks at me a moment, then he walks off into the kitchen and makes himself a cup of tea. I am trying to forget how thirsty I am. I am also trying to focus away from the pain, and the numbness in my hands.   
  
For the next hour or so, I am left pretty much to my own devices. Sherlock has taken up his station at the kitchen table, studying something under his microscope and taking notes. If I try I can just turn myself around to look at him, but the ropes twist up when I do this and I end up having to stand even further on my toes. My feet are in a near constant state of cramp now and my legs ache, so in the end I turn the other way around and try to look out of the window. There’s nothing much to see.    
  
My thoughts are in free flow now, trying to think around the pain. I end up thinking about the murder victim, and when and how she might have died, and what her last moments were like. It isn’t happy stuff, but at least I feel some satisfaction in helping in a small way to bring her killer to justice. I feel quite light-headed after my panic, and some of my thoughts are getting decidedly silly. Still, it keeps me from taking too much notice of the state of my body. I briefly wonder what Phil would say.   
  
It is slowly getting dark when the door of the flat opens and I can hear someone enter the lounge.   
  
“Well, I’m back,” I hear John Watson say. I can hear his footsteps stop abruptly as he spots me. I try to turn around, but my feet don’t work properly anymore. It is also impossible to look over my shoulder, so I can only guess at what he is doing.    
  
“God, Sherlock, do you have to do this in the _living room_?” he sounds exasperated.   
  
“I don’t have a ceiling hook anywhere else, John.”   
  
John has walked in front of me now.   
  
“Hello Adriane. Are you OK?” he asks. He has to look up quite a way to meet my eyes. I have never really appreciated how short he is.   
  
“Hi John. I’m fine, considering.” I am grateful for the distraction and for someone to talk to.    
  
“Have you been here long?” he asks. It is clear he doesn’t just mean the time I have spent in the flat.    
  
“A couple of hours, I think.”    
  
He goes quiet and has a look up to see the state of my hands. It is clear they are too far away for him to see anything properly.   
  
“I think you’ll find the coffee table is about the right height,” Sherlock comments from the kitchen.    
  
John takes no notice of him and grabs a kitchen chair. He examines my wrists and hands as well as he can, pinching each finger to make sure I have feeling in all of them. He doesn’t look too happy when he climbs down.    
  
“And what exactly is the experiment?” he asks.    
  
Sherlock ignores him, so I say, “I’m a Schrödinger’s corpse.”   
  
“ _What?_ ”   
  
“This woman was found hanging by her wrists, murdered. They’re not sure at which point she died. I am a cloud of possibilities.”    
  
“Wrong,” Sherlock says from the kitchen, “you are simultaneously alive and dead until we untie the ropes, I believe.”    
  
_ Trust him to correct me on quantum mechanics _ , I think. I shouldn’t be too surprised.   
  
John gives me the oddest look. I just give him a grin. “Sorry. Too much time to think.”    
  
“I’d offer you tea, but I guess you’d have trouble drinking it,” John says.    
  
“It’s OK,” I say, “can’t really visit the toilet at the moment anyway.”    
  
He’s looking at me indecisively. “Anything else you need? Other than psychotherapy?”   
  
I smile, he’s not far off the mark even if it was intended as a joke. I think about it for a moment. My feet are absolutely killing me with cramp, it is almost worse than the pain in my wrists.    
  
“Ehm,” I say, “I don’t know if you could give my feet a stretch. They’ve cramped up something rotten. I can’t really do anything about it myself.”   
  
He takes off my socks and has a quick feel of my feet, then stretches them upwards one by one. It is a different kind of agony, but it makes the cramp go for the moment.  “You need to flex your toes every so often, that should keep the circulation going,” he says. It amazes me once again how easily he deals with these situations, how he can just accept the inevitability of Sherlock’s mad ideas and just give practical assistance where needed within those constraints. I wonder if he has always been like that, or whether  Afghanistan made him so, or whether it was Sherlock. I say thank you.    
  
John goes into the kitchen and makes himself a cup of tea. “How long is she going to stay there for?” he asks.    
  
“Until we’re done,” comes the curt reply.    
  
“She’s got barely any feeling left in her hands. It’s not safe, Sherlock.” I can tell that John is trying to suppress his anger. I turn myself around as well as I can to see.   
  
“I am sure Adriane will be fine for a little while longer,” Sherlock says. He hasn’t looked up from his microscope yet.   
  
I try to wriggle my hands, but I can’t really tell if they move. I decide to keep at it until I can feel something.    
  
“I will take her down as soon as I feel it is medically necessary, whether you are finished or not,” John says, his anger now clearly showing through.    
  
Now Sherlock looks up, although his face doesn’t betray any emotion. “Fine,” he says, then returns to his studies.    
  
John walks back into the living room, tea in hand. He looks miffed. I turn back again, my feet and legs exhausted already. He stands in front of me once more.   
  
“It’s not like he even put you the right way round to watch the telly,” he says.    
  
I giggle despite myself.  “I don’t think that’s a courtesy generally extended to murder victims,” I say.   
  
“Well, I guess there’s not much point if you’re dead already,” John grins.   
  
“Maybe it was part of the experiment,” I say. “Death by boredom.”    
  
John is giggling now. Sherlock is pointedly saying nothing at all.   
  
“I can move the telly across a bit if you want,” John says after a while. I can’t believe he’s being so _nice_.    
  
“It’s fine, John,” I say. “I can look out the window.”   
  
“What, at the flats across the street? In the dark?”   
  
“Honestly, it doesn’t matter. I’ll listen along to whatever you’re watching.”   
  
John switches the television on. It’s Top Gear. It’s inane and silly and has more than its fair share of insufferable schoolboy humour, but it’s distracting and requires no sensible thought. I try to keep my fingers and toes moving while it’s on and it seems to work a bit, as I begin to get some feeling back in my fingers. My hands are awfully cold, though.   
  
As the programme is about to finish, there is a knock on the door. I can’t see who it is, and I don’t want to turn round. I have no issue with John seeing me like this, but the thought of Mrs Hudson or some stranger coming in is making me want to be swallowed by the floor, or just turn invisible. As it is, the voice of Mrs Hudson sounds behind me.    
  
“Yoo-hoo. Didn’t you hear the door bell, Sherlock? Oh.”   
  
It would have been better if I hadn’t been in the middle of the living room. There really is nowhere to hide here. I still can’t make out what is going on behind me, but Sherlock says, “It’s an experiment, Mrs Hudson. She’s fine.”   
  
I feel no wish to turn round and prove the point. I just wiggle my fingers at her. At least they are moving better now.   
  
“Oh,” she says again. “Well. Mr. Lestrade is here for you.”


	3. Suspension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I am tying this in an identical pattern to that found on the murder victim. I apologise in advance for the total lack of skill on the part of the murderer, and the poor quality of the rope,” he says. He is waiting for me to extend my arms, but I hesitate. I am wary to hand over total control. I have too many bad memories of this kind of thing going horribly wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Sherlock and never will, he belongs entirely to himself, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and those lovely people at the BBC, as do all the other Sherlock characters. I do not make any money from this. Adriane Woodford is a figment of my imagination and does not represent a real person, living or dead.
> 
> This fic is a sequel to Bait and Control. It is part of the Adriane Woodford series.

Now I really want to disappear. All I can do is hope and pray that he didn’t bring Sally Donovan with him. A single set of footsteps enters the room behind me. That, at least, is something. I hope against hope that he will just walk straight to the kitchen.

  
“Volunteering again?” Lestrade says as he appears in front of me. The look he is giving me is half worry, half amusement, and a bit of disbelief. I really just want to dissolve into thin air.   
  
“Yes,” I say. I look away. There is far too much going on in that stare. I am waiting for him to go and talk to Sherlock, and leave me alone.  
  
“Enjoying this?” he asks.   
  
Now I am getting angry. I really don’t think he has the right. I look back at him. “No,” I say, truthfully, “but I’m doing it anyway. And I’m happy to. And I’ll be fine, thank you.” I didn’t really mean to raise my voice, it just happened.  
  
I can hear John suppressing a snort. Lestrade backs off a little, raising his hands in defence. “OK, fine. Just asking,” he says. He looks at me a bit longer and then disappears to the kitchen.   
  
“Nice one,” John says quietly. "Quite possibly the first time he's been told off by someone suspended from a ceiling."   
  
I smile. He comes over and checks my hands again, then sits back down and switches over to a different channel. It’s some dancing competition, which means lots of old music and snide comments. It will do.   
  
Above the music, I can just hear Lestrade say, “You do realise she could sue you for GBH three times over.”  
  
“She won’t,” Sherlock says calmly.   
  
“You’re awfully sure about that.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Lestrade is quiet for a moment.  
  
“Well. Just make sure you look after her,” he finally says.  
  
“I have John.”  
  
Lestrade doesn’t answer that. I wish I could see his face.  
  
They go on to discuss some photographic evidence for a case that Lestrade has brought over. Sherlock points out the crucial details that are obvious to him but to nobody else and Lestrade leaves, apparently happy. With the disappearance of that distraction I start to notice the pain in my arms and legs again. My fingers have once again gone numb, and I begin to wonder how long I have been here. Maybe it is because I am thinking about it, but with that my right leg cramps up completely and I can barely suppress a cry. John is over like a shot.  
  
“Are you OK? What’s wrong?”  
  
“Cramp,” I manage, “right leg.”   
  
I try to stretch out my leg but it doesn’t work. Now my left foot shoots into a spasm as it is trying to support all my weight, and I end up hanging off my wrists entirely. John is trying to help as much as he can but there isn’t much he can do without adding to the weight on my wrists. I am in agony.  
  
“Get me down, please,” I say.   
  
He doesn’t hesitate a second.   
  
“Sherlock, I am taking Adri down. This has gone far enough.” He shouts over to the kitchen. Then he disappears from my field of view and comes back with the knife from the mantelpiece. As he stands on the chair to cut the ropes, I am surprised to find Sherlock has appeared behind me to hold onto me. I try and turn my head.  
  
“I could just let you collapse like a ton of bricks,” he says.   
  
I shake my head. My legs are not my own at the moment.  
  
It doesn’t take John long to cut through the ropes, and in one blessed moment the weight is taken off my wrists. My legs give way immediately, but Sherlock has me under my arms. John comes down and helps him move me over to the sofa. I feel like a sack of potatoes, I can barely move my legs. _This would be funny if I wasn’t so sore_ , I manage to think. Maybe it will be, in hindsight.  
  
I look at my hands. They have gone a strange blueish colour, and I can’t really feel them. John is cutting through the knots around my wrists now, and I can just make out the feeling of the blade of the knife over my hands as he slides it under the ropes. I feel nothing from the point where the knife goes underneath the rope though, which is worrying. Sherlock has disappeared but returns with his note book and magnifying glass.   
  
The ropes don’t come off when John has cut through, because they are stuck to my skin. I can see they have become embedded in places, and it makes me feel sick.   
  
“I am really sorry,” John says. “This is going to hurt a lot.” I wish he could have been a bit less truthful.  
  
He is very careful, but it still hurts more than I could imagine. I can’t bear to look at what he is doing, and am unable to suppress my tears although I manage to cry quietly. Really I should be beyond caring, but I don’t want either of them to ever think of me as weak.  
  
“Adri, I am done,” John says. I realise I must have zoned out, trying to cope with the pain by withdrawing. His face is full of concern as he is looking at me. “Are you OK? You went somewhere.”  
  
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, “I do that sometimes.”   
  
I look at my wrists, and then I wish that I hadn’t. There is a lot of blood, and not a lot of skin. I feel physically sick, and it is only the fact that there is nothing in my stomach that keeps me from throwing up on the spot. I am getting very dizzy. “That doesn’t look good,” I say. Then everything goes black.   
  
When I open my eyes again I am lying down on the sofa with a pillow under my legs. John is sitting on the kitchen chair which is still in the room, looking at me. Sherlock is pacing around the room impatiently.  
  
“You OK?” John asks.  
  
“God, my hands,” is all I can say. I don’t want to look at them, but they are aching, throbbing as circulation is returning to them.   
  
“Yeah, I know. That’s a good sign, though. You, eh… You blacked out.”  
  
“I figured,” I say.   
  
“When did you last eat anything, Adri?” John asks. He isn’t looking impressed.  
  
“Ehm, I had lunch, of sorts,” I say. It seems a very long time ago.  
  
“Yes, all very nice,” Sherlock cuts in, “I’m sure we can do the food thing later. I need to look at your wrists, Adriane.”  
  
John gives him an evil stare, then looks at me questioningly. I just say, “I’m surprised you’ve waited.” I still feel spaced out, and it doesn’t make me very tactful.   
  
John says, “Oh, I made sure he wasn’t going to get to you until you were at least conscious.”   
  
Sherlock has had enough. He comes over to the sofa and kneels down, magnifying glass in hand. I look away as he studies the cuts on my wrists, occasionally turning my hands or moving them backwards and forwards, and now and then taking photographs. It’s painful, and he takes his time over it. John goes off to the kitchen.  
  
“Four-and-a-half hours, not bad,” Sherlock says.   
  
I’m not even sure I’ve heard him right. “Sorry?”  
  
“I’d given you about two, after your little panic.”  
  
I decide that asking him whether that is meant as a compliment might be pushing it. Instead, I say, “Thank you. I am trying.”  
  
Sherlock just says, “Hm. You keep fainting though.” Then he suddenly looks at me. “Oh.”  
  
John comes out of the kitchen, carrying a mug of tea and a big plate of biscuits. He puts them both down on a side table. “Help yourself.”  
  
“But not quite yet,” Sherlock adds, moving the table just out of my reach. He takes an antiseptic wipe out of his pocket and opens it. “I’m going to have to see what’s going on underneath all the bleeding, Adriane. This might hurt a little."  
  
It does, a bit more than a little, but he’s careful and gentle and I just sit back and let him get on with it. It’s only one more thing, after all.  
  
By the time Sherlock has finished the tea has gone almost cold. It doesn’t matter. I drink it anyway and have half of the biscuits. John bandages up my wrists while Sherlock disappears to the kitchen.  
  
“What I don’t understand is how you got such deep cuts,” John says. “I mean, you were supporting some of your weight on your toes all the time, weren’t you?”  
  
I shrug my shoulders. It’s a question I’d rather not answer. He looks at me.  
  
“What happened, Adri?”  
  
I realise he is far too experienced a doctor to be fooled so easily. I think about what to say without giving too much away. “I panicked. I tried to pull myself free. Sherlock calmed me down.” _Please don’t ask any further,_ I think.   
  
John looks at me for some time before he says, “Do you think he might have made you panic on purpose? You know, for that authentic edge?”  
  
I think about it. I hope not. “I can’t tell,” I say after a while. “I don’t think so.”  
  
“I didn’t, as a matter of fact. Although it served its purpose.”   
  
Neither me nor John had noticed Sherlock coming back into the room. John stands up, and says, “Really.”  
  
Sherlock just gives him a curt, “Yes.”  
  
The two men eye each other up for a moment. The tension is tangible, and the silence goes on far too long for my comfort at least. In the end, John backs down.   
  
“Dinner, I think.”  
  
Dinner is Thai curry, which is nice. I can’t help but wonder if they just live on beans and takeaways. When I ask John, he laughs. “It certainly seems like it some days.”  
  
After dinner Sherlock installs himself behind his laptop to write up his conclusions on the case. John tidies up, and I feel a bit like a spare wheel. It’s still quite early in the evening and I could easily get home tonight. I have just made up my mind that that’s probably the best thing to do when John puts his head around the door of the kitchen.  “Beer?”  
  
I’m not sure. I don’t know how welcome I am. I look at Sherlock. He has looked up, and gives a little nod. “Stay. I’ll take the sofa.”  
  
I’m more than surprised, and when I look at John he looks equally flabbergasted. I’m wondering if I’ve missed something, if there is some plan I’m not aware of. I find it hard to believe he’s trying to be nice, or might be feeling guilty in some way. I decide to go with it though.  
  
Sherlock folds his laptop closed decisively. “Well, that’s that case closed. Pathetically simple in the end. I should have figured out she was a diabetic much earlier.”  
  
John and I are on the sofa, halfway through our beers, and give him equally glazed stares.  
  
“The murder victim,” Sherlock says. “She wasn’t murdered as such, she succumbed to a hypoglycaemic coma about three hours into being hung up. It was brought on by lack of food and an excess of adrenaline. The suspect panicked when she blacked out and ran when he couldn’t revive her. I’m not even sure he intended to kill her, at least not at that point, but that’s for the jury to debate upon. Thank you for fainting, Adriane, that was most instructive.”  
  
“Ehm…you’re welcome?” I really don’t think he’s joking.  
  
Sherlock seems in excellent spirits, and after pouring himself a drink he picks up his violin. He plays, and John and I listen. After the weird evening I feel entirely at peace. The beer has an instant effect and I am sinng into a warm glow. Without thinking too much about it I snuggle up to John, who, after a moment’s hesitation, puts his arm around me. I feel I could stay here forever.  
  
“Adri, you’ve done it again.”   
  
I open my eyes. Still on the sofa, John giving me a shake. Sherlock is reading. I must have fallen asleep again.   
  
I sit up, and say, “Sorry. I am making a habit of this.” I look for the time. It’s eleven o’clock. I’ve been asleep a full hour.  
  
“I’ve been asleep for ages. You could have woken me up sooner.”  
  
John shrugs. “I wasn’t going anywhere.” I feel mildly embarrassed now.   
  
“Go to bed, Adri,” he says, “you obviously need it.”  
  
I don’t need telling twice. I say my goodnights and head off.  
  


\--oooOooo--

  
  
I wake up in the middle of the night. For a moment I don’t know what woke me, but then I realise that someone has come into the room. I can’t see who it is in the darkness, so I fumble about for the switch to the bedside light. I never find it, but the light flicks on anyway. Sherlock is standing by the side of the bed, by the looks of it dressed in not much more than his house coat. He is holding the Wartenberg wheel in one hand. I sit up straight, instantly wide awake. “Sherlock, wh… what are you doing?”  
  
He smiles briefly at my obvious shock, then holds the thing out to me. “Your turn, I believe.”  
  
Now I’m confused. “ _What?_ ”  
  
“You never believed me when I said I find it easy to rationalise the sensation. And I would be interested to test it with the added randomness of somebody else holding the instrument. Not something I could ask John to do.”  
  
I have to quickly dismiss the mental image. “No,” I say, “I guess not.”  
  
I take the wheel off him. He takes off the house coat and lies down on the bed in just his shorts. Then he puts his arms over his head, giving me full access. “All yours,” he says.  
  
I look at him. The soft light is enhancing his slim form, defining his muscles. I find my thoughts wandering rapidly to many other things I would like to do to him.  
  
He sighs. “Adriane, focus please.”   
  
I shake my head. “Sorry, you’re not helping.” I have learned months ago that it’s no use to pretend anything here. Sherlock just rolls his eyes.  
  
I manage to collect my thoughts with some effort. I’m surprisingly nervous about this. Although I have no hesitation about letting him hurt me, it is not something I want to do to him or anyone else. I roll the wheel over my hand to get some idea of the amount of pressure required. It doesn’t take much. Sherlock is just watching me.   
  
_Right_ , I think, _if I’m going to do this, I’ll do it properly_.  
  
“You’ll have to close your eyes, Sherlock. It would be far too easy for you to pre-empt where I’m going otherwise.”  
  
I’m not surprised that he has to consider this for a moment. He doesn’t find it so easy to give over control, then. And maybe he is just a little worried that I might just throw the wheel away and jump on him. In the end he closes his eyes.  
  
I look at him a moment, wondering where to start, and admiring his form. I decide to go for the surprise angle and run the wheel over the inside of his thigh. Other than a short, sharp intake of breath he shows no reaction. I take the wheel down over the inside of his leg, down his calf and ankle. I am convinced that he will have to react when I reach the soles of his feet, but he doesn’t. Even his breathing doesn’t change. I am beginning to wonder whether he’s just zoned out. That’s easy to test, though.  
  
“Sherlock?”  
  
The answer is calm and immediate. “Yes.”  
  
“Nothing, just wondering,” I say.  
  
“I am fully aware of what you are doing.”  
  
 _Obviously_ , I think.   
  
I decide to take a different approach, and begin to run the wheel for little stretches in random places. I vary the time in between the runs as well, in an attempt to build in as much of a surprise factor as possible. Even focusing on the places I know he must be most sensitive makes no difference. He is just lying there, breathing very calmly, quite able to completely filter this experience out as irrelevant. I am fascinated by it. I know I can do this by retreating when I am in a lot of pain, but that’s different, I lose all awareness of my surroundings then. He’s completely there, but it just doesn’t seem to touch him. In the end, when I have exhausted my ideas on variation and surprise, I give up. He opens his eyes almost immediately. I didn’t even say anything.  
  
“I don’t understand how your mind works,” I say.  
  
“No,” he says, and then, “Thank you. That was interesting.”  
  
I look at him. He hasn’t moved yet, and he’s looking relaxed and gorgeous. I lean over and kiss him, because it seems the right thing to do. When I pull away, he is still looking at me, but more guardedly now. I realise I am treading a very thin line.  
  
“Sorry,” I say. “I wanted to say thank you, for not letting me give up this afternoon. It helped me.”  
  
His expression softens a little. “I know. There is no need to apologise.”  
  
Even so, I can read him well enough to know not to try again. I lie down, and he reaches over me to switch the light off. On the way back, he gives me the briefest of hugs. Before I can even react, he has rolled over.  
  
“Good night Adriane. Get some sleep.”  
  
It takes me a long time to settle again. I have too many things to think about, and I am still feeling very aroused, and having Sherlock fast asleep right next to me doesn’t help at all. In the end, I drift off into a restless sleep.  
  
In the morning he’s gone. I get up and get dressed, and make my way into the kitchen. There’s nobody about, so I find the cleanest mug and make myself a cup of tea. I get a bit of a shock when I go into the fridge for milk, and I don’t look too closely at the unmarked bags of what looks like body parts in there. Mrs Hudson was right after all when she mentioned eyeballs, I realise.   
  
There’s nobody in the lounge, either. I’m beginning to wonder where they both are. I check the coat rack. Both Sherlock and John’s coats are gone. I can’t quite believe they would leave me alone in the flat, but then I notice the note on the coffee table. I read it.  
  
 “A,  
Gone out on case.   
Have breakfast &   
Go home.   
Will be in touch.  
SH.”  
  
 _Just like that_ , I think. I shouldn’t be too surprised though, and I guess the fact that I am trusted to find my own way around the flat is some kind of compliment. After my experience with the fridge I decide to skip breakfast, but I manage to find some more biscuits and finish my tea on the sofa. I feel pretty self-conscious, as there is nothing stopping me having a root around the flat. _He would know though, wouldn’t he, somebody that aware would be able to tell if I had moved stuff around_. I decide it really isn’t worth it.   
  
It feels weird pulling the front door closed behind me and leaving the flat empty. I decide to walk home in order to sort my thoughts out. It takes me an hour or so, but I feel a lot better when I step into my own flat. It is clear to me that I have some important things to do. I pick up my phone and dial Phil.  
  
“Hi, it’s Adri. I was wondering if you wanted to come for dinner tonight.”


End file.
